The Man Across Me
by Bukkunkun
Summary: There was a man who had always been there. Always, without fail, every day of the week. A USUK Coffee Shop AU, that's not quite the AU you are looking for.


wow it's been a while usuk please enjoy this wow goodbye for another few months /shot

trigger warnings for suicide.

* * *

There was a man who had always been there.

Always, without fail, every day of the week.

He would sit down, right across me, with his headphones around his neck, his black-rim glasses in front of big, blue eyes that shone brighter than the light reflecting from the creases of his old leather bomber jacket. There would be a scarf around his neck sometimes, when the weather was cold, or he would have the jacket just tied around his waist, when the weather was warm.

He always had something with him; his laptop, a book, engineering drawing materials, a hastily put-together circuit board, three wrappers of hamburgers; anything, and he would always be doing something, even when sitting down.

He was very active, I could tell. His body was lean, yet muscular, his frame tall and strong. I could tell he was an athlete—American football, probably.

Ah, yes. He brought a helmet with him one time. Yes, he was an athlete.

He would smile a lot, easy, carefree kindness radiated from him. Animated talk spilled from his lips. He was rather loud, sometimes, but there were other times when he would just sit there, silent, yet content, and those were the moments I cherished the most.

When he first sat with me he was anything but welcome. The café we were at wasn't one to get full easily; he could have easily sat anywhere else, and it was strange for someone like him to sit with someone like me, and for no reason, at that.

I ignored him, at first. Watched him silently as I pretended to write and read my journal.

He was loud, that was my first opinion of him. He was clumsy. Excitable.

At first, it was annoying, but one day he was subdued, quiet. I saw the papers he had with him—he had failed an exam.

As he moped there across me, I stopped in my scribbling in my journal when I realised he wasn't talking. Or doing anything.

I realised I had rather missed the colour in him. It was odd seeing him so quiet.

I knew if I had spoken up instead, my speech would have collapsed on itself without giving me a chance. I was clumsy like that—an introvert. I wasn't really good with talking to people, and with an extrovert like that man. If I had said anything, I'd even probably end up hurting him even more.

That would not do for first impressions.

So I knocked the salt shaker over to catch his attention.

It was the first time he spoke to me, but at least I had put a smile back on his face.

"Don't do that, silly." He chuckled, setting the salt shaker back in its place.

I dared not reply in embarrassment. I hid my face back in my journal and pointedly ignored him the rest of the time he was there.

He still returned, though. Day after day.

He was still there, but now I was more comfortable with him. Of course, I didn't really let him know I was listening, but rather than reading my hardly-legible scrawl on my journal, I listened to what he was saying, peeking over the leaves of the yellowing papers at him, watching him work at whatever he was doing.

Soon I began to notice things.

He pouts when he's thinking. He likes chewing on things; usually the end of his pen or the tip of his milkshake's straw. He likes to eat (yes, _definitely_) sweets, and absurd amounts of sandwiches and hamburgers. He's an engineering student—a little below the top of his class, it would seem. He was also taking confidence lessons—often I would hear him practising public speaking in front of me, like he was talking to me.

Of course, I dared not reply. Instead I watched; I listened.

I then learnt his name—Alfred F. Jones. It was a lovely name, it suited him. It was just as charming as he was, I'd imagine.

Alfred liked to smile a lot; even when things would get him down. No matter what happened to him, there was always a little smile there on his face, even when there was cream smeared on his face after pigging out on the café's crepes, or when there were a few tearstained tracks running down his cheeks.

I never made a move to comfort him, or laugh along with him.

I was too frightened to even speak to him, but I listened and watched all the same.

After all, he seemed perfectly capable of functioning on his own. What was I to him, anyway? Just a tablemate.

(Sure, I was cold and silent, but a tablemate nonetheless.)

I kept it going; I listened to him, absorbed his life into mine, and before I knew it, my journal was full of him, instead of me. Descriptions about Alfred, his daily stories, what he was doing that day… it didn't stop, and my hand moved on its own accord.

I ended up filling the book about him.

(I wonder why my ink had turned red halfway through, however.)

Now, in the end, I stared at the final page of my journal, and I frowned, biting my lip. What now? I had to get a new one, at this rate.

(Where did these vertical scars come from?)

No, I won't get a new one, I think. Today, I'll tell him. Since it's the last page anyway, I'll write the most important thing at the last page, and I'll give it to him before I go.

(My arms feel wet.)

Alfred was practising speech again today. He was getting ready for something important, and I could tell he was really nervous. His words kept coming out jittery, and I found it absolutely endearing to see him so unsure of himself.

I mustered the strength to smile.

"You can do it, love." I said, softly, as I lowered my journal down on the table in front of me, closed, my pen left at the last page—my first message to him, before I go.

He nodded, looking straight at me, and despite the cold in me, I felt warmth blossom in me.

"Right." He nodded, taking a deep breath before starting again. "I've—fuck, no, I'll just… I'll just…" he fell silent, and I cocked my head.

"Alfred?"

"I'll do this properly." He said, eyes locking with mine, and I could only dumbly nod.

"Okay, I've known you for a while, and it's been great being with you." He said, "I've been with you with a lot of things I've done; engineering shit, reading shit, eating," he chuckled, "And I've let you even listen to my practice speeches."

"… Alfred, what is this?"

"The point is, we've known each other for a long while now, and I just wanted to tell you that…" he paused, taking a deep breath again, as I held mine. "That… I-I love you, and that I want to marry you."

I stared at him in shock. My jaw dropped.

"Alfred, I…"

He pulled out a ring box from his pocket. "So," he grinned shyly, "Will you marry me?"

A strange sort of happiness rushed through me, spreading like blooming blossoms. I let out a strangled laugh of joy, as I nodded wildly.

"Yes, yes, I'd love to."

He smiled, more of a lopsided grin more than anything, and pulled the ring box back into his pocket.

"Yeah, okay, I think that'll do."

My heart fell to my stomach. "… What?"

"God, I hope he says yes," Alfred smiled to himself as he got up from his seat, pulling out his wallet to leave a tip behind for the waiter who would clean up after him.

I didn't watch him leave; I couldn't.

In shock, my hands fell to the table, and I stared down at them—

Only to find deep red lacerations on them, five or six across my wrists, and four along my arms. They were bleeding out profusely, and the next thing I knew I was lying headfirst in a bathtub filled with water, my blood mixing with the clearness all around me.

That was when I realised my journal was gone.

My eyes widened, and tears ran down them, forming underwater rivers beneath the blood-soaked water.

That was when I realised that I was dead.

Always have, always will be.

* * *

"I kept his journal, all this time, yeah." Alfred nodded as he pulled out a tattered old journal from his bag. The green cover had slightly faded, and there were dried splatters of blood on it.

"Wow. May I see it?"

"Sure, go right ahead."

He opened the journal at the last page—the first page he had seen of it, and all it said was, "_I love you_," in dried blood.

"What happened to him?"

"He… he killed himself." Alfred sighed. "Before I could ask him to marry me." A little sniffle escaped his lips. "I… couldn't save him."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, so am I."

A sad smile crossed Alfred's lips.

"And I'm sure that he was too."

* * *

_I am_.


End file.
